I have been pounding on a closed door.

And have only now realized it,
now that the blood has seeped
into the creases and lines of my hands,
leaving trails like maps,
as if they might guide me to
understanding.

it's shocking and a little embarrassing
to realize
that one's been causing such a commotion
trying to pry, pull, bend, break
a door
that's not open.

i mean,
it's hard to regain one's composure
after such a battle,
such a surrender,
so i turn and squat on the porch.
move to sit on that first step
and light
a cigarette.

how does one Love a closed door?

accept it for what it is, perhaps.
sweep the porch.
press my palm to the wood, still warm
from my attempts.
slip my hands into my front pockets
and step out into the street.

feel the sun's caress,
the breeze as it dances by me-
notice the green of the trees,
and the birds singing spring.

walk.
one foot in front of the other.
those first few steps are the hardest,
though I do manage to
swing and sway my hips a little
as I
walk away.

shake it Sister, shake it.
she says, as she passes by,
nodding in approval
and in time.

I stroll onward and
wander towards doors that are flung wide open-
porches that welcome me
with the enticing fragrance of spices
sifting in the breeze
with such lovely heartfelt music
pouring out into the street.